The People's Friend Special

Faithful Service

A wedding gift is treasured in this evocative short story by Polly Grace.

- by Polly Grace

IREMEMBER the first time I saw it. I was wandering around Chadd’s department store on the high street with my mother. I had got engaged a few weeks before and we had spoken to Chadd’s about hosting our wedding list.

My head was full of all the things I’d want and need in my kitchen, the first and foremost choice being the dinner service.

And there it was, in all its glory.

Gorgeous beige-coloured earthenwar­e, with an eye-catching pattern encircling the cups, plates and storage jars.

I loved it. It seemed so modern, so utterly 1977, that I knew it was the one.

David and I moved into a two-bedroom house on a newly built estate on the edge of the town we’d grown up in.

Several days after we’d moved, a van drew up and our wedding list was delivered into our livingroom in cardboard boxes. It was like Christmas!

New bedding, a fondue set, glistening steel saucepans, Tupperware tubs of different sizes that fitted neatly into each other and, of course, my dinner service.

I spent the afternoon unpacking and storing my new kitchenwar­e, all the while deciding what I would cook that evening.

I flicked through a glossy cookbook with vivid photograph­y (a gift from my mother-in-law) and plumped for the very exotic-sounding quiche Lorraine.

My pastry was a success, and David declared it the best quiche he’d ever eaten.

I washed up the glossy plates and beamed, hoping it would be the first of many successes.

I remember fondly the roast dinners on a Sunday, with David’s family and mine bonding over roast potatoes and mint sauce.

The cosy evenings spent with other couples, lots of wine and the gasps of surprise when I brought out the mountain of profiterol­es, hiding under a cascade of chocolate sauce.

At the heart of it all was the ever-faithful dinner service.

My favourite moment was always the anticipati­on, waiting for the guests to arrive, laying the table and seeing the plates gleam in the candleligh­t.

Of course, amongst the successes were the failures.

The chilli con carne where I misread the recipe and added two tablespoon­s of chilli powder instead of two teaspoons.

The Victoria sponge that I added bicarbonat­e of soda to, instead of baking powder.

The tin of condensed milk I placed into a pan of boiling water and left to turn into toffee for a banoffee pie, not realising I had to pierce the lid or the whole thing was liable to explode.

David and I stayed up until almost midnight, chiselling caramel off the kitchen wall.

It might come as no surprise to find that it wasn’t long before I had to make another visit to Chadd’s to supplement our dinner service with some sturdy miniature bowls and plates for little hands.

Two places at the table were less stylish but ever so cute, with grey bunnies chasing each other around the rim of cream-coloured plates.

There followed years of family dinners: casseroles, tureens of mashed potatoes, huge pies full of leftovers, roast chickens and treat-night pizzas.

Chocolate sponge cakes, rhubarb crumbles, bread and butter puddings and rustic jugs full of custard.

No sooner had the plates and bowls come out of the dishwasher than they were back in, it seemed.

With two hungry teenagers, always on the prowl for a snack, crockery discarded amongst folders and books on the edge of a desk often resulted in a smashed piece.

The faithful dinner service became much depleted.

More recently, a glossy head shouted from its vantage point in a kitchen cupboard.

“Mum, can I take some of these old brown plates to uni with me? It won’t matter if they get broken.”

I jumped to the defence of my old brown plates, citing their once cutting-edge stylings and quality.

But as I saw my beautiful girl holding a precarious tower of brown plates, bowls and cups, I realised that they were hers now.

They were destined to hold piles of oven chips, cradle microwave noodles and supply endless cups of black coffee in the wee hours while essay writing.

I realised that that was OK. That there was comfort in these little pieces of home travelling far away with her to her new life.

David and I became empty-nesters, with a sweet and sour mix of feelings.

The oddments of china left over are just enough for two of us, and make simple suppers (omelettes, jacket potatoes, salads) feel more wholesome and cosy.

I hope in a few years to need more bunny plates – I can’t wait to be a granny! Until then, I have a new hobby.

Every Sunday morning I’m up with the lark and trudging dew-laden fields, scouring car boot sales for the missing parts of my dinner service.

Last weekend I found a tureen and a teapot in lovely condition.

David thinks I’m mad and has told me just to buy some new plates.

He doesn’t understand how much I adore these ones, how much we’ve been through together.

How many birthday cakes have they held, how many boiled eggs and soldiers for poorly children, and how many slices of Welsh rarebit on winter afternoons?

How grateful I am for the years of faithful service.

As soon as I saw it, I knew the gorgeous dinner set would have to be mine . . .

The End.

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